Saruman's story
by Iisdabest889
Summary: Saruman's story from when his staff is broken to his death in the shire. Please review as it is my first story...
1. Saruman leaves Orthanc

"Saruman, your staff is broken!"

Saruman fell back. And with a cry, he crawled away; back into Orthanc. Just as he had fallen back, a dark round object smote the railing where he had just been, and continued hurtling below. Intuition gave Saruman a bad feeling that the falling object was the Palantir; his tool of communication to Sauron and for spying, and that Worm had thrown it. Hurriedly, he scrambled to his feet and slammed the door to the balcony, rushed up the stairs to the room where he kept the Palantir hoping his foresight would betray him.

Grima was peering down from the window at the Fellowship far below, both dazed and a little disappointed at his failure at murdering one of the two wizards, and being unable to decide which wizard to aim the shiny black orb at.

"What do you think you're doing?" The voice of Saruman echoed around the walls of the tower, and Grima turned around from the window to see his master standing in the doorway glaring at him with fiery eyes. He hadn't heard him come in. Grima knew that the wizard was furious, and that he was in deep trouble.

"Master, I…" Grima began, but he was cut off.

"What was that? What did you just throw?" Saruman began making his way towards his frightened servant. Hearing his master's voice full of anger and panic disorientated Grima, and he struggled to regain his train of thought.

"Th – th – the s – shiny black thing," he stammered, fearful of the significance of what he had done

"You fool!" Saruman kicked Grima to the floor and Grima cried out in pain as his master's long finger nails dug into his neck and strangled poor Grima. "That was the stone of Orthanc! My Palantir!"

"I'm sorry… Master…! I didn't… know!" Grima choked.

"Sorry, you say?" Saruman growled, a slight tinge of laughter in his voice. "You will be, Worm! You will be!." And with that Saruman dragged Grima by the ear to a nearby closet and locked him inside.

"Stay put, and be silent!" Ordered Saruman. His powerful voice compelling the slave to obey.

Grima had been unable to sleep through all the long hours of his 'imprisonment' and he had lost track of time when Saruman finally decided to let him out. How long had it been? At least a day, surely. His back ached, as well as his head, and he was dying for some food and drink. The door to the closet suddenly opened and light flooded, paining poor Grima's eyes.

"Well, Worm, I tried to leave this Wood – demon infested place through the underground tunnels I had my servants build, but Gandalf must have ordered them to be block up, for they seem to be entirely flooded. Looks like we shall remain here until we starve. The fools don't realise what a mistake they have made; throwing away an alliance with Orthanc."

Grima dared not complain about the situation, nor did he think it wise to change the subject.

"But… M – master, won't the trees let us out?" Grima humbly asked, not daring to look Saruman in the eyes.

"Of course not, you fool! Their hearts are as black as Gandalf's, they want us in here as their prisoners, to which they may condemn us to a long death sentence of starvation. I do have a food storage area in Orthanc which we shall savour; so we may survive until we are rescued."

Weeks passed with no sign whatsoever of salvation, and every day Saruman would listen to Treebeard's endless reports about the war of the ring, which seemed to torture Saruman as he had grown impatient. Grima would listen from the above window, But it was one morning, when Saruman was finally convinced no one was coming to save them; that he decided it was definitely time to leave Orthanc.

"Worm, grab the keys of Orthanc. We're leaving."

"But how, Master? Will the forest creatures allow us leave?"

"The fools think that I have lost my powers what with the destruction of my home and the surrounding lands being against us, but I will get us out of here. I have studied the way Treebeard thinks and acts, and I can tell he doesn't like the idea of us being imprisoned. Just watch!"

Confidently, Saruman marched to the balcony and began calling for Treebeard. This surprised Treebeard and the other ents as it was normally Saruman who was being called.

"Treebeard! Treebeard come forth!" Saruman called, leaning over from the balcony. Treebeard emerged from the other side of Orthanc and came right up to the foot of Orthanc.

"_Buh – rah – hrum _Saruman, you seem far more lively today! Do you wish to hear more of the success against Sauron, or would you like to hear a long, long tale of old?" Treebeard laughed slowly, but soon silenced himself as he saw that Saruman was serious.

"I think it is time for us to leave, Treebeard, for Grima and I feel as though we are trapped – and dying – like animals locked in cages doomed to a sentence of starvation. But do you not take pity on trapped beings, Treebeard? Does that not displease you? My home is destroyed, my neighbours are now my enemies; what possible threat would I be to anyone? If you continue to uphold Gandalf's order, for I know he ordered you to hold me in here, I will surely starve. What good is it to cage a helpless animal?"

For a minute Treebeard paused, for he had never heard Saruman's voice speak with such power and sincerity. The ents had strong wills and were resistant to many weapons, but he had underestimated Saruman's power. Treebeard felt uneasy as he struggled to remember what Saruman had actually said, but he did remember that Gandalf's order was evil and dangerous.

"Very well then, Saruman, I will allow you and your servant to be free. But you must hand over the keys to Orthanc." Concluded Treebeard, still slightly bedraggled. Saruman had grown to loathe the sight of not only Orthanc, but Isengard itself; so it was with little reluctance that Saruman cast down the large iron key from the balcony to Treebeard.

Saruman bitterly turned his back on the great tower and began walking along the road followed by his servant – now – slave who crawled miserably behind.

"Come worm, we shall leave these monsters to rot, and later regret their folly. I will now leave Middle Earth, and you shall accompany me. Afterwards you are free to perish any way in which you desire."

Grima so desperately wanted to be free, but could not escape his master's spell.


	2. A life on the road

For at least three days Saruman and his wretched servant, Grima, had travelled along the road in search of a way out of Middle Earth. Saruman, now made into a beggar clothed in grey robes carrying a staff with a pitiful man acting like a pet following helplessly behind, was wandering close to the lands of the Dunlendings whom he had manipulated during to war of the ring to do his bidding.

"If we can find just a small tribe of these primitives, it will at least be someone cosier than this dirt road." Saruman announced to Grima during their hike. "I might even try seek their assistance, Worm."

Grima whimpered in acknowledgement, but continued cowering with his face to the ground.

It was not one mile later when another group of travellers over took the two beggars; led by Gandalf himself. A brief confrontation between the wizard and the Halflings made Saruman realise that it was these Shirefolk who were responsible for the destruction of his home!

After bitterly refusing to accept Gandalf's offer to go with them back to the undying lands, Saruman decided to head in a different direction from where they were going; which happened to be into a forest.

"Halflings?" Saruman laughed, but making it clear he was quite infuriated. "Halflings destroyed my home?"

"I did see them with one of the tree people, Master, when I arrived in Isengard." Grima quietly replied. "One of them recognised me! I can't remember which, though."

"I beg your pardon? You knew of the Halflings and yet you told me nothing?"

"I – I d-didn't think it was important, Master! I swear! Please don't beat me!"

Saruman glared at his servant, cowering before his eyes, for a good long minute.

"You are indeed certain, Worm. I can see your honesty. But you still nonetheless withheld information from me. For that, I will give you no crusts for your supper."

For at least two hours, it seemed, the two walked through the forest with no destination in particular. It was getting close to nightfall when Saruman decided to find a spot to camp in.

"Here, Worm. We'll rest here for tonight." Saruman swept away leaves and branches to create a little clearing where he threw down a cloth and his staff. Grima followed suit but without an extra cloth he would have to lie down on the bare earth. He was just about to sit down when Saruman spoke again:

"Worm, go gather firewood! I won't have us freezing to death in this treacherous wood. I want to see a pile of fuel back here before dark. Now, go!"

"Yes Master!" Grima crawled off hurriedly. His master's voice was echoing through his head as he quickly searched for some branches and kindling. He didn't know the area well and didn't want to stray too far in fear of getting lost, but neither did he want to displease Saruman.

The forest was growing dark quickly, but Grima had gathered a decent amount of firewood for their camp, only he had felt a little nervous the entire time – he didn't feel alone. He heard nothing, but the eerie feeling of being watched grew stronger by the second, as though sharp eyes and keen ears were following his every move; ready to pounce at any moment. The only sanctuary he had was back at the campsite with his master. He didn't want to panic himself, but to be safe he decided to head back swiftly.

Saruman was sitting upon a log, smoking a pipe, undoubtedly filled with some of the pipe – weed the halfings had given him (or given back I should say). "Here, master," Grima mumbled as he dumped the pile in the middle of the clearing.

"Excellent." Saruman replied, putting aside his pipe and leaning towards the fuel. "Worm, hand me some dirt." Grima obeyed and at the same time Saruman got out a pinch of black powder from his satchel. In his hands he mixed it with the dirt and threw it at the kindling. In a red flash the pile erupted with bright flames and a rather large amount of heat emanated immediately. Grima couldn't tell if it was magic, or one of his master's old tricks; he guessed it was a mixture of the two. Saruman grinned as he sat back on the log and got out a piece of stale bread, like a beggar receiving more than his share of a daily meal.

"Go get more fuel, quick!" Snapped Saruman. "We don't want the fire to go out!" But Grima was uncomfortable with going back amid all the trees again.

"But, master, surely this is enough?" Grima questioned, trying to sound as brave as possible.

"Fool! You do as I say!" Growled Saruman.

"W-well what about wolves?" Grima asked.

"Nonsense! You know as well as I do there are none around here!"

"But I heard them! Just before!" Grima braced himself for a beating, but nothing of the sort came. Instead Saruman just looked Grima in the eye, as though staring into his mind yet again.

"You heard no wolves, treacherous Worm, and neither did you see anything. You felt the elves watching you." Saruman gestured towards the north – west. "They live just over there, I think, for I know of an outpost in this wood." Grima looked at where he had gathered fire – wood, and it was indeed north – west.

"Lets hope you haven't trespassed on their land, Worm, for those may have been your last steps."

Silence filled the wood, and Saruman just gazed up into the high brushes of the trees, distantly. Grima was about to interject when with a quick, sharp turn Saruman span around and pointed his staff towards the south; into what appeared as plain darkness. "I expected better of you, wood – elf, for even a slave to a beggar could sense your presence." Sure enough, emerging from exactly the spot where Saruman was pointing came a wood – elf, and from another direction came two more. All three were aiming their bows at the wizard. Saruman laughed wickedly.

"Saruman, we give you no permission to enter our land. You are to leave now or it shall be the first time a member of Middle – Earth has taken the life of a Maiar."

"My dear friends," Saruman pronounced. "Are we not all from the same land? Why deny your very superior passage?" Grima felt as though the elves were going to lower their bows, maybe even bow down before Saruman, but all he could do was watch. The first elf came up with a quick reply:

"Saruman, you shall know we elves are not enthralled by your voice. But it is indeed true you are our superior, so it is not our place to judge you; for you have fallen. But we will grant you swift access to our land so long as you are to stay no longer than necessary. We'll be watching you, Saruman, so don't try any of your tricks."

Saruman's voice had only achieved half of what he had wanted, but even a small effect had shown he now had power over them. Thus, in his greed, he decided to continue.

"What possible harm would I do? Burn your cabins and trees?" Saruman's scoffing at the thought of an inferno distracted the elves from the near bon – fire next to them. "Neigh, fools, denying beggars mere access shows how dishonourable your race is. Yet again, you have proven it to yourself by fleeing this land due to the rise of one of my own. A beggar, trying to make his way to a town, is monitored with extreme caution and is threatened with the thought of arrows pointed at him throughout the journey? You are truly dishonourable, if you have come to thinking I may do harm." The slickness of the Wizard's voice and words had taken the elves' minds off of how dangerous he could be, and it was clear even to Grima that their grip loosened on their weapons. One elf even dropped his bow.

Their wits were now blunt as they pondered as to why what he had spoken was so reasonable, and how they thought a mere beggar could harm them. The elf proceeded to pick up his fallen weapon slowly, so Saruman seized his chance: he raised his staff and with a strong stroke he brought it down upon the elf's head, knocking him unconscious. The other two disorientated elves struggled to regain their train of thought whilst at the same time ready their weapons, but Saruman was too quick; he stabbed the second elf in the chest with his knife and knocked the other elf out with the end of his staff.

"Hurry, Worm!" Saruman yelled. "It will not be long before more elves come, we must set these foul creatures' home ablaze!" Grima grabbed a lit branch from the fire and lit the dry leaves in the surrounding area as well as the nearest tree. Saruman had somehow sharpened the end of his staff in a hurry with his knife, lit the end of it and hurled it towards another tree like a spear. "This shall do it, let's go!" Saruman began running northward followed by his crawling servant. "We must not be seen!" Saruman was weaving in and out of the trees and bushes in an odd way, but at least there was no sign of more elves. Soon they came to a walking pace, and Saruman was beside himself in the glee of getting revenge.

"It matters not whether those elves are unconscious or dead, for they will soon be burning if not already. We have sought our sweet revenge on this vile race, and have been well rewarded; but our task is not yet done. I have dealt heavy strokes on the race of man and the dwarves I care not of. It is the Halflings whom we shall go after next, for I already have a few connections to the Shire, and the thought of them losing their homes whilst they destroyed mine is pleasing. Come, Worm! We must get there before they do!"


	3. Tavern talk

Much to Saruman's dismay, the fire that he and his servant had set was soon put out shortly after they fled. Grima noted the look of disappointment on his master's face when they saw smoke stop rising from the forest, which by this time was a fair distance behind them. It'd been 2 days since the events in the woodland and it was sunset. Weariness had hit the two beggars hard; but it had certainly hit Saruman's servant harder. Grima wondered how such an old man could keep going on the way he did. _Surely there must be more to this wizard than meets the eye..._

Finally Saruman halted, but he made it clear he was not intending to end that day's journey."There is a small village just over this hill, Worm. There we shall rest. These... peasants may have some supplies which we may need, and may give us news of any matters in the North." Worm found it a delight to hear the wizard's voice no matter what words he had to say - More often than not, when Saruman spoke to his thrall, he let out nothing but a tyrade of insults and abuse.

"But master, we have no money. And I'm sure these peasants won't just hand over what little they have!" Grima responded, somewhat defiantly. He knew the wizard would punish him for his tone so he quickly added "but... but I know they'll be hospitable. Especially to you, my lord!"

The wizard didn't seem bothered by his servant's mishap, and continued forward.

Freida was surely exhausted by now. She'd spent the entire day tending to the fields, feeding the animals and helping her father, Faegir, attempt to fix their house. Much of their village had been ruined during the orc and wild-men raids under the White Hand, and many of her friends and family had been murdered right in front her eyes. Fortunately, she and her father survived along with several others, and had spent the past few months trying to repair their village. Just thinking about the hopelessness that her and her kin had once felt when their king was ill, brought about a feeling of anguish - and the fact that there was much she still had to undo in her life did not make it any easier.

Every day she cursed Saruman for what he had done to her home. All this extra strain on her father was not good for him in his old age, for there was little left he could do; save for a bit of carpentry and basic chores. She was a moral and strong-willed woman, though, and tended to have luck on her side. Her determination had served her well, and despite her injuries, she showed now sign of letting it fall off any time soon.

The hard work and abject poverty Freida and Faegir lived in was somewhat redeemed at the end of each day with their fireside yarns, town gossip and new tales and songs they'd learned from other villagers or guests. Despite the terror they had lived under not too long ago, and the damages done to their lives, both of them managed to keep high hearts (though now they were much more vigilant). Faegir was wise and well-traveled for a man of his status, and regardless of his old-age and physical impairment, Freida still admired her father. There was never an evening where he couldn't enthrall her with poem or a song.

It was a warm evening in early September, and Freida was telling her father part of a conversation she'd overheard whilst having a drink at the tavern. "Two beggars, I saw," a hunter told the bartender. "And one of them. Oh! never was there more a pathetic wretch! If mine eyes didn't deceive me, which if they had then I daresay I could no longer continue with my vocation; if mine eyes were not cheated, I'd go so far to say that one of the two beggars was crawling on the ground. Like a dog!"

"The wretched creature!" The bartender had exclaimed. "And what would you say of the other panhandler, pray you?"

"The other... yes..." The hunter had then stopped, and a pondering expression came across his face. "He was... old, I could say. Clothed in grey rags and carrying a staff, the creature at his heels. But it wasn't appearance that got to me, it was when he opened his mouth."

"And what happened next? Did fire shoot from it? Was his tongue seven times longer than need be?" Freida laughed and imitated the way the bartender was now leaning over the bench, fascinated, and eager to find out more. "Or did he speak words you'd never expect to hear from an old man?"

"That's just it," the hunter had replied. "I can't remember the words I heard. I only remember pointing in the direction of the village and watching to two rustlers continue on their way. I half expected to see them begging on the street right out your front door!"

"They certainly haven't been! And you're the first to tell me about these strange folk. I get many travelers and I hear all the talk of the townsfolk, but no one else here tonight has spoken of such mysterious fellows." The bartender had paused, and Freida had looked away making sure he wasn't aware that he was being eavesdropped on. "You say you have no recollection. Perhaps he just wanted to know where you were from? A friendly gesture, and then continued on his way?"

"Nay, that did not happen. The beggars then walked_**towards**_ the village, unless mine eyes deceive me yet again. And besides, how many travelers are foolish enough to trek on foot and avoid staying in whichever town they come across?"

"Mysterious indeed, and quite unnerving."

It was then that Faegir snapped his daughter back to reality. "Strange folk come and go as they please. Such is village life! Surely they cannot be implying that we're in any danger simply because a foolish huntsman can't remember every detail of a light-hearted conversation he had with a stanger?" He laughed. Freida joined him.

"Well what would you expect, Papa, from a man who hunts all day and sleeps most of the night, and never gets to spend much time among many new faces?" Freida joked.

"Quite right, my dear, quite right," Faegir ended, quickly becoming serious once again. "Mind you, with all the damages done to us it would be wise to at least stay indoors for the rest of the night, and to perhaps check that we lock the door properly. We never know if these strangers might actually be thieves or cut-throats."

"Of course, Papa, of course. But did you ever-" Freida was cut off by a heavy pounding on the door.

"Who is it? What do you want?" The old man asked.

The pounding continued. Faegir prepared to get up from his seat by the hearth and see who was at the door.

"No, Father, I'll go. You stay seated." Freida reassured her father, and she hesitantly walked over to the door. Slowly turning the doorknob, she opened the door a mere crack so that she could see who was making this racket. What she saw was neither intimidating, nor threatening; but rather pitiful.

A small, wretch of a man who was wearing dirty black clothes which one might even say were going grey was standing at the door. He had black unkempt shoulder-length hair and dirty hands, which looked as though he's been crawling on them for quite some time. He was so hunched over, his hands were almost touching the ground, making it appear that he took great effort in standing up. His skin was pale, and his face eyebrowless. His eyes had a distinct slyness about them, but in spite of this there was also a look to him that told all who looked upon this wretch that he was a prisoner, trapped.

"Y-yes?" Freida finally managed. "What is it?"

"I'm dreadfully sorry to bother you at such an hour, but could you spare anything for a poor beggar?" The wretch whimpered.

"I.. Um.. I-I may have some bread crusts left. Let me go get them." She closed the door, somewhat ashamed almost being frightened by such a pathetic man.

"Bread crusts again!" The beggar muttered.

Freida found and grabbed the stale crusts which were wrapped in an old rag, and opened the door again. But the beggar had disappeared. She stepped outside and looked around curiously. It was only dusk, but the no one was in sight. _He must have found a more charitable neighbour, _she thought to herself. She turned around to head back inside when suddenly she heard a voice.

It was low and melodious, its very sound an enchantment. As she listened to the voice she felt an unexplained desire within to act wise, for everything the voice said was wise and reasonable itself.

"_Lovely lady," _she heard the voice say. "_I see you are not without honour that you would spare a few crumbs for a poor, wandering beggar."_

These words pleased her, enlightened her. But at the same time made her wonder: why was she feeling so uplifted over such simple flattery? She swung around to see an old man not ten feet in front of her. This puzzled her further, as she had not heard or seen him until now. The wanderer wore grey rags and carried a staff, and fit the description of one of the beggars spotted by the hunter in the tavern. She didn't know what to make of the character, but she did know that she wanted to give this poor wanderer food and whatever he required. She took a step forward, and held out the stale crusts. The old man took no notice, and continued talking.

_"But tell me, is this your house or your husband's? Or is it perhaps your father's? I am seeking rest and warmth as my servant and I are very weary from our journeys. Would you be so kind as to giving us a bed, a roof, and perhaps some more food until we set off on our way?"_

Freida was heavy-hearted, but before she could even comprehend what the old bearded man was saying she found herself nodding in agreement and making way for him. Stepping aside, she watched with a mixture of wonder and bewilderment as the beggar entered her and her father's home, followed by small, hunched over man, crawling at the old man's heels.


End file.
